The Seduction (29 page)

Late the following day,
they reached
Sora
, a picturesque village at the foot of the Abruzzi. A cluster of whitewashed stone cottages signified the village itself, which appeared to consist of only one street.

Margaret felt the curious stares of the few people they passed. It was understandable, she supposed, as Trevor dismounted to ask the man at the livery stable where they might find a room for the night.
Sora
was not on the tourist route, and strangers were bound to be noticed, especially at this time of year.

The man nodded in answer to Trevor's inquiry and beckoned Margaret to dismount. She slid down from the horse and approached the two men.

"There's no inn," Trevor told her, "but he says that the people just up the road would probably be willing to take us in for the night. They have an extra room."

He and Margaret walked up the empty street to a
somewhat larger cottage, where a rotund woman in a white apron was scattering feed to the chickens in the yard. She studied them with friendly curiosity as Trevor entered the yard.

Margaret hung back, waiting just inside the gate while Trevor spoke with the woman. Margaret listened as he explained something in a stream of fluent Italian, his voice vibrant in the languid, sleepy afternoon. Watching him, Margaret couldn't help thinking for the hundredth time about the intimate way he had touched her the night before. She'd known, only because of that forbidden novel she'd read, that men did such things. But nothing in the author's words had told her just how extraordinary it was, how intoxicating it felt to be touched in such a way.

His manner toward her since then had been scrupulously polite and very remote. Her attempts at conversation had been met with the briefest of replies, and not once had he touched her again. Margaret found herself wondering what she would do if he did.

Trevor stopped speaking, and Margaret came out of her reverie to find both of them looking at her. The woman approached her, smiling, and said something in Italian, taking her hands to give them an affectionate squeeze before she led her into the house, beckoning Trevor to follow.

She took them up a narrow flight of stairs to a small room with an iron bedstead, a washstand, and a window that looked out over the street below. She pointed to the pitcher and basin on the washstand and the chamber pot in the corner, then looked at them, her round face crinkling into an indulgent smile as she patted the bed in a decisive gesture.

Margaret understood the implication of that. She felt color rush to her cheeks, but the woman's smile only widened. She said something to Trevor that made him laugh, and Margaret frowned suspiciously as the woman took the pitcher from the washstand and left the room.

"What did you tell her?" she demanded.

Trevor dropped the saddlebags and the roll of blankets onto the bed. "I explained that we are newly married and have been traveling through Italy on our honeymoon."

"What?"

"We were beset by bandits, but we escaped on one of their horses, which is why we have no coach and no luggage. Signora
Bartoli
was quite touched by the story."

She swallowed hard. Casting a furtive glance at the bed, she couldn't help envisioning both of them lying there. She could almost feel the touch of his hands and the weight of his body pressing her down into the soft feather mattress. "You told her we were married?" she repeated, warmth flooding through her body at the scandalous pictures in her mind.

"Italians are a very romantic, passionate people, but they are also good Catholics. We are a man and woman traveling without escort. What should I have told her?"

Margaret forced her gaze from the bed and turned toward him, but she could not quite meet his eyes. "You could have said I was your sister."

"Be sensible. You don't look at all like my sister. She'd never believe it for a moment. If I had told her that, we'd be spending another night sleeping outdoors, and since clouds are moving in and it looks like rain, I don't much care for that idea."

A knock sounded on the door, preventing any reply she might have made. When Trevor opened the door, Signora
Bartoli
entered, carrying a stack of snowy white towels, a chunk of soap, and the pitcher, which was now filled with water. She handed the items to Trevor, talking all the while. She gave Margaret an affectionate kiss on each cheek, murmured what sounded like an endearment, and departed.

"I think she's adopted us," Trevor said, closing the door. "She feels terrible that a young bride should endure such a trial on her honeymoon."

Her chest tightened. "I'm not a bride."

"It's only for tonight, Maggie," he said. "You can pretend for one night, can't you?"

"I suppose so," she conceded with a sigh.

"Good. Then let's wash up and go downstairs. The signora offered us a hot meal, and I, for one, am looking forward to that."

After washing the travel grime from their faces and hands, they went downstairs and followed the delicious scent of spicy food and the noise of raucous conversation to the kitchen.

The room was a large one, but half the space was taken up by a long dining table, where an elderly but robust man sat at the head. He was flanked by two empty chairs obviously reserved for Margaret and Trevor. Beside those chairs sat two younger men. Two women, obviously their wives, sat beside them, one with a sleeping baby nestled against her shoulder. Six children, ranging in age from about five to fifteen, occupied the remaining space at the table.

Another place was set at the foot of the table, but Signora
Bartoli
was not seated there. Instead, she moved about the kitchen, stirring pots, filling wine glasses, and serving the first course of hot, spicy minestrone and bread to the others. The roar of conversation made Margaret wonder in amused amazement how anyone could hope to be heard above the din or how the baby could sleep so peacefully in his mother's arms.

Conversation ceased long enough for introductions to be made, but as Trevor began listing off names and translating relationships, the names all began to run together. Margaret ended up unable to remember who was who. All she knew was that her hostess was Sophia
Bartoli
, the older man was her husband, Gustavo, and the two young women were their daughters, who were married to the two young men. She wasn't quite certain which children belonged to which set of parents.

She gave a tentative smile to her host. His response was to give her a long, hard stare from head to toe. He must have approved of what he saw, for he smiled back at her, then waved her into the seat on his right. She accepted it, and Trevor took the empty chair opposite hers.

All around her, conversation resumed, and, with everyone talking at once, the noise level rose again, continuing unabated through the soup, the pasta, and the fish. For Margaret, who was accustomed to excruciatingly polite, very dull conversation, the meal was fascinating, even though she couldn't understand most of what was said.

The men were having a heated discussion, probably about politics, if their emphatic voices were anything to judge by. The children squabbled and played, returning their attention to food only when sternly reminded by their mothers to do so. Sophia spent most of her time bustling back and forth between the stove and the table, urging food on everyone else. The two young women sat together, obviously talking about the baby, who was still sleeping in his mother's arms, blissfully unaware of the havoc all around him.

Margaret watched her hosts and couldn't help feeling a hint of envy. These people were a family, the kind of family she'd never had. She thought of her own childhood, and images of the huge, luxurious dining room at the Newport house flashed through her mind. Her father's chair, empty, of course, as he was nearly always away on business. Mrs.
Stubbins
picking at her food and puckering up with disapproval every time Margaret had a second helping of anything. The footman, Hubble, stone-faced and properly silent as he served at table. Her mother, who had died when she was a toddler, existing only as a portrait in a gilt frame against the striped paper on the wall. And herself, a chubby little girl who had no brothers or sisters to squabble with as she ate, too intimidated by Mrs.
Stubbins
to play with her food and lost in the silence that was broken only by the tinkling of silver on china.

Sophia came up beside her, and Margaret realized that the older woman was about to refill her plate with a second serving of fish.

"No, no, please," she implored, holding her hands protectively above her plate to prevent it. "No more."

The older woman spoke to Trevor, and he said, "Sophia is worried that you don't like her cooking."

"Oh, no, it's delicious," Margaret replied, hoping she wasn't being rude by refusing. "It's just that I really shouldn't have any more."

She watched the older woman as Trevor translated her words. Sophia shook her head and spoke decisively. Trevor smiled, an unexpected response to the woman's stern tone of voice. Curious, Margaret leaned forward and whispered, "What did she say?"

"She says that since you are a married woman, you need to eat more."

"Why?"

He leaned back in his chair. His gaze moved to her mouth, down to her shoulders, and lower still in a lazy, leisurely appraisal before he looked up again and met her eyes. "Because there's always the possibility that you're eating for two."

She blushed again, a reaction that caused Sophia to laugh and beam at her with motherly approval before she gave her an affectionate pat on the cheek and turned away.

Trevor did not laugh. He simply looked at her, half-smiling, and she felt the impact of his gaze instantly—that powerful awareness of him, and only him, that cast a spell and blotted out everything else. It made her feel as if they were the only two people in the world. It was exactly the sort of look an adoring groom ought to give his bride—intimate, tender, and loving, a look of leashed passion and shared secrets.

They were only pretending, but he was good at it. So good that, for an instant, it seemed like the truth.

He looked away before she did, and the spell was broken. Margaret accepted a cup of coffee from Sophia and studied Trevor for a moment longer. She watched as he became involved in whatever the men were discussing, and she wondered what he really felt about her.

With ruthless honesty, he'd called her a spoiled child, but she could still hear the passion in his voice when he had called her "sweet Maggie." He'd teased her and embarrassed her and ordered her around, but he had rescued her from those men. He was only after her money, but he could look at her as if he wanted her love. With one word, he could provoke her to outrage, with one kiss he could unleash her desire. And every time she thought she had him figured out, he turned the tables on her.

Something he said made the men laugh, and Gustavo gave him an approving slap on the back. He hardly knew these people, yet it was almost as if he were one of the family, just another son visiting his mama and papa for Sunday dinner. But his own brother had turned him out. She didn't know for certain whether the story he had told her was true, but she was inclined to believe it was. Margaret wondered again if she was the biggest fool in the world.

I haven't figured you out yet, Trevor St. James,
she thought, watching him.
But I will.

When the meal was over, Sophia and Gustavo's children and grandchildren departed for home, and the house suddenly became quiet. Gustavo and Trevor went outside to smoke cigars, and Sophia began clearing the table. Margaret offered to help her, but Sophia refilled her coffee cup and sent her out of the kitchen.

She took her coffee into the parlor and immediately spied the homemade chess board and box of wooden game pieces that sat on a small table in one corner of the room. When Trevor and Gustavo came back into the house, Trevor saw her standing beside the chessboard and walked up beside her. "Do you play?" he asked.